He’d bring wine and insist he was learning to cook, though his definition of cooking mostly involved grilling with great enthusiasm. We’d sit on the porch after eating and talk about ordinary things—books, the weather, the state of his tomatoes.
Sometimes, if the night was quiet enough, he’d talk about my mother.
Not in guilt. In remembrance.
Paige came occasionally, too.
Our relationship wasn’t the kind you see in movies where everyone becomes best friends after hardship. It was slower. More honest. Built on accountability instead of denial.
She’d rebuilt her life in a way that didn’t rely on Victoria’s image. She worked in nonprofit finance now—ironic, maybe, but also fitting. She said learning transparency felt like learning a new language.
One evening, as the sun dipped low and turned the ocean gold, Paige stood beside me at the railing and said, “Do you ever think about her?”
Victoria.
I didn’t pretend I didn’t know.
“Sometimes,” I said. “Not with anger. Just…as a reminder.”
Paige nodded. “I got a letter,” she said quietly.
My stomach tightened. “From her?”
Paige nodded again. “She’s out next year,” she said. “Early release for good behavior.”